


Dribs and Drabs

by illwynd



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Horror, M/M, Sleep, Smoking, Squick, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:34:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/illwynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and short ficlets</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haunted by Shadows, Shadowed by Death

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized I didn't have a place to put drabbles, tumblr ficlets, or anything else too short to get its own post. Now I have one. Summaries and warnings will be added to each individually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Loki's death on Svartalfheim, Thor mourns. After that, the daydreams begin.
> 
> Warnings: Canon character death, non-explicit descriptions of fantasized (not actual) necrophilia.

When the worst of Thor’s grief passes, the daydreams start. When they come he slips into them helpless, against his will.

His brother is dying in his arms again. Gasping. Clutching. Thor’s own pleas and the strange mottled grey of Loki’s face. Thor doesn’t understand that even now; it is not his Jotun nature peeking through—something else. Poison, or the stain of that dark realm.

Then Loki stills. Loki is _dead_ in his arms.

Thor can’t resist the bruiselike shadows over his sharp cheekbone. He touches, and finds his brother’s body has already—inexplicably—gone cold.

He strokes the softness of Loki’s hair.

Bends to kiss his mouth, dead and slack and grey.

Thor falls in love with his brother’s corpse.

The body is still Loki’s, was for so long the body of the one he most loved, and he holds the lifeless form close as his own heart races and his eyes sting, the chill sinking through him with the delicate feel of his brother’s skin against his. Desperation, his breath buffeted back, icy sweat trickling down his spine. Distant sensations. Mad lust, as if he could refuse his brother’s death by _wanting_ him.

_Anticipation..._

He emerges from these daydreams shaky, unsettled, slightly ill. He tries to be gentle with himself. He knows these fantasies are something his mind conjures to deal with the loss. They are his mind hunting hopelessly for solace. No more than that.

But in his daydreams, the feeling of anticipation swells when he kisses the grey marks on Loki’s face over and over. In his daydreams those shadows have meaning; they are the answers to questions he had not known he was asking.

In his daydreams he is almost sure that if he waits, if he stays long enough, something wonderful will happen.

***

 

 


	2. Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's time in prison is eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little thing was originally posted to [my tumblr](http://illwynd.tumblr.com/post/56403487280/eternity) some time ago and I was just reminded of it today. I'd plain forgotten I wrote it. Try to mentally put yourself back into the time when all we knew about TDW was what we'd seen in the trailer, because otherwise this will seem very odd.
> 
> Contains: dark themes, violent thoughts

This is what eternity feels like.

It is silent in his cage. Not the silence of Asgard echoing all around him but a soft silence, a humming white hush to match the empty space he inhabits. The glare of white light, night never falling, days never passing. At first he counted the shifts of the guards, the shadowy figures that exist beyond the confines of his prison, visible through the edges of his own scowling reflection against the darkened glass. At first he tried that. He thinks now they keep a random schedule simply to disorient him. He wonders if they enjoy the attempt.

( _Of course they do_. _They would show it, if they found him worth the effort of disdain._ )

This is the feel of eternity.

“Laufeyson.” He counts backward from that moment, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap where he sits amid the silence of his cell, aware of the guards’ eyes always upon him unseen. “Laufeyson.” It was the last word he heard that did not come through a thick barrier of glass, the last word that was not a garble of muffled chatter, unintelligible and nonsensical, snippets of the life above that now has nothing to do with him. He counts backward from that. Backward from Midgard. Backward to the void, to its black darkness as he now hangs suspended in light.

( _Light, somehow, seems more inescapable. There is no way out of this cage. No bargains to be made with dark powers, no way to reshape himself into a fearsome fallen king. His fingers play upon the ragged, torn edge of the shirt they left him in, trying and failing to keep himself from tugging at the dangling strings_.)

Eternity, alone.

At first, the light keeps him wakeful. It turns the insides of his eyelids red. He cannot sleep, can only stare into the surface of the glass until stinging, burning bloodshot eyes scour all they land upon with loathing, until each subtle sound annoys him—the whisper of his own clothing as he shifts, the occasional gurgle of his guts in the silence, the hiss of air between his teeth as he snarls at his reflection.

He learns the trick of it at last, sleeping curled around his knees, his arm across his eyes. And then—for he knows not how long—he does nothing but slumber. Bread left for him goes stale, cheese turns hard and foul. He wakes and finds the pitcher of water has evaporated into a mere trickle. He drags himself up sluggishly—or, soon enough, doesn’t bother, shuts his eyes once more, each time with stubborn finality, and slips back under. He does not, as far as he can tell, ever dream. He does not _want_ to dream.

( _Liar. He does not want to wake and remember._ )

Eternity of boredom.

It is impossible to sleep forever, though, and eventually his body forces him into a routine. He sleeps. He wakes. He watches the shadowy figures. He stares at his own eyes until he is no longer sure if he has always known the look of them as he does now. It is not the only thing he grows uncertain of. A murk forms across his memories like the haze of green-scummed water in a filthy pit. Now when he counts backward he gets lost. Sometimes his thoughts snag on the broken edge of the bright bridge or shatter in the hard blue ice of Jotunheim. Sometimes he can go no further than the pleading look in Thor’s eyes when he begged him to give up and come home. But at least, he thinks, he is not so far gone that he does not remember where that ends. He is counting backward, after all.

( _It is everything he can do not to search every inch of this prison for some crack, some weakness, scrabble against the stone with his hands. But all he has left is himself, his pride. He tries to count forward. He tries to find some other way, inside, within his mind. He searches, closing his eyes, but it is hard, for there are no markers anymore, nothing to grasp at, no path through the blinding, empty white_.)

Eternity, and they have buried him.

He begins to hear it now, the sounds of Asgard above him, the lowest of echoes slipping through the rock that forms one dull, rough wall of his cell.  He listens to those murmurs intently, his back to the stone, his eyes still fixed on the darkness of the glass, focused on the writhe of shadows beyond. What he hears, distantly, is the sound of Asgard continuing on as if nothing has changed. As if he had not fallen. As if he had not fought and struggled and nearly, nearly won. As if he were not here, as if they had not all buried him while he still breathes.

( _And why not? All they have buried is a monster_. _Why should they not go on?_ )

Eternity, and no one has come.

The writhing shadows coalesce into a single shape, sometimes, as he watches. A fall of blond hair, pleading blue eyes that come into existence beyond his own as he stares, a hand that lifts to the glass. He bites the tender inside of his mouth until he tastes copper. Envisions unfolding to his feet, pacing once alongside the barrier in a languid show to let Thor take in the sight of him: He has grown gaunt in this prison, hasn’t he? Has he ever looked so feral? His ragged tangle of hair, his thin, weary smile, and Thor swallowing hard as the words he has come to say fail him. Envisions approaching close so that their hands could almost touch, if it weren’t for the wall between them.

A twinge of warmth begins in his belly, a dull throb of pain, and he stares savagely at himself in the dark and shining wall of his cage until the image dissipates. Thor has not come, Thor will not come, he does not want Thor to come. He does not want to hear whatever foolish, maudlin words would drop from his lips now. Thor was the one who dragged him back to Asgard, to this, to be _forgotten_. And Loki does not care if he is to be here forever, he does not want to ever see his brother again.

( _He does_ not _. If he ever has the chance again, it will end with Thor’s blood on his hands, in his mouth, in his eyes. Thor should not dare come near him now, after all they have done to each other_.)

Eternity, and Thor has not come.

From the moment the realization strikes him, from that confused and stuttering moment that he realizes he has been waiting for something that will not happen, he cannot get away from it. He does not know how long he has been there—for what long and fathomless portion of eternity he has been held in this prison—but however long it has been, Thor has not come. Not to mock or accuse him, not to plead with him, nor even to stare at him through the glass like a stranger. Loki does not want him to come, but he cannot help but wonder. He cannot help but grow slowly frantic.

If Thor ever stands before him, this unbreakable barrier will not protect him. Loki will tear him apart.

He feigns sleep, curling around his knees with an arm cast over his eyes, and he can barely breathe for the effort of keeping in the sobs. The elbow of his ragged shirt soaks through.

( _Thor has not come, and Loki hates him for it_.)

It has been an eternity.

*

This is how eternity ends.

It ends with a sound like thunder traveling swift through the stone at Loki’s back in the moments before the shadows change, growing briefly brighter, clearer, cleaner.   

This time it is no apparition. Loki watches, eyes narrowed, but he makes no move as Thor approaches.

Thor clears his throat, but stops and glances over his shoulder as another deep cracking sound shivers through the ground that encloses them. A distant roar. The sound of the realm beyond as trouble arrives within it. As eternity begins to fray at its edges.

Loki feels a sudden rush of heat as he breathes in, and it escapes with a hollow bite. “After all this time?” Loki sneers before Thor can begin, before he can say a word.

Storm-blue eyes of a shade he has never forgotten snap to him through his reflection, and they make no apology, no plea. Thor has come with threats and promises. He has come with tidings of ruin, with a determined set to his jaw, and he steps no nearer than he must to make his bargain. Loki listens, and all in an instant he understands.

( _Thor has come for his_ help _. Loki has been here, buried, for an eternity, and Thor has not come for_ him. _Not for_ him _._ )

The bright silence burns and hums inside him until he can feel nothing else. It burns red behind his eyes.

But perhaps, in the end, it does not matter why. Thor is here, and if he is here… Loki will not spend the rest of forever imprisoned. With Thor before him, Loki knows what to do. He will slip this cage at last.

He stays still, watching how his brother stares him down, listens as he vows vengeance for betrayal, and he does not immediately give his answer; let at least a single moment pass, and let Thor wait. Let him wonder. Imagine, for a moment, that he will suffer for it.

Eternity ends as Loki smiles.


	3. Something To Do With My Mouth and My Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki is behaving himself these days and playing along with Thor's heroism on Midgard. Still, in a place where tobacco is quite out of fashion, he catches a quick smoke break. Thor joins him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more or less forgotten about this wee gen snippet until I was reminded of it today. Originally written to fill a [Norsekink prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/9985.html?thread=21679617#t21679617). Just a little scene.
> 
> Contains: cigarette smoking

Of all the things Loki might have complained about regarding the Avengers’ recent move to the west coast of America, the only one that truly bothered him was the fact that the Californian health craze extended to banning tobacco smoking indoors. Or anywhere close to a window outdoors. Or anywhere at all in some entire towns, where beady-eyed grandmothers and middle-aged joggers alike would no doubt glare their disapproval at any sign of imminent air pollution—though, with everything else that was in their air, he couldn’t see how a little bit of smoke could possibly make things any worse.   
  
And he was behaving these days. Playing by the rules.   
  
Tucked into the doorway alcove of an abandoned church next to the shawarma joint that Tony seemed to insist on finding everywhere they went, Loki worked one of the very first tricks he’d ever learned.

It was a talent that the Midgardians somehow remembered from of old. Cigarette pressed between his lips, he cupped his hand and murmured one of the ancient words for fire, and the bright dancing flame burst into being, hovered over his palm for just long enough to stoke the dried brown end into red heat, and then was allowed to flicker out in a passing breeze thick with ocean salt and diesel exhaust and bougainvillea pollen, whispering with the rustle of a cluster of palm trees and the rumble of the freeway a few blocks distant.  
  
Among lewd tales of horses and goats and giants and lies, the mortals had also named him god of fire.   
  
He sucked in a thick white breath, feeling it deep in his lungs, and blew it out again. He watched the streamers of smoke fade into nothing as they rose.   
  
“Clint Barton has told me to remind you that smoking stunts your growth.”  
  
Loki gave no reaction to the jibe as Thor entered the little alcove with careful dignity. He took another drag before answering. “It is also known to induce calm and level-headedness. Funny, I thought he liked me best when I am not actively homicidal.”  
  
Softly, Thor laughed, and Loki looked him over before pulling out another cigarette from the immaculate cardboard packet in his breast pocket, lighting it off his own, and extending it to his brother.  
  
With a nod of gratitude Thor took it, holding it between his first two fingers in the American style. And that was a detail Loki could not help but notice. In so many things, Thor was eager to adopt the new ways of his friends and allies. And somehow, when he did it, it seemed less a rejection of Asgard or his past than simple enthusiasm to taste of all the good the world had to offer. Of course, Loki supposed this also meant Thor would put the habit behind him when it fell far enough out of favor, even though the dread chemicals would never do him any harm whatsoever.

That same eagerness was probably why Loki was here with him now. Behaving himself, because Thor had asked.   
  
Resolutely, Loki pinched his own between thumb and forefinger in the older fashion, and together they smoked in silence. Two old gods, on the threshold of a church in a younger land, while their mortals finished their meal on the other side of a broad stretch of cracked asphalt under a baking sun.

As Thor watched in pleased fascination, Loki blew a smoke ring, and another within it, and then a puff of smoke that might have been a star floated into its center. He blew an arrow, a radiation symbol, an hourglass, a complex round shape lit from within by a brief sulfurous flare of magic. The smoke changed colors as it left his lips, in vivid shades of red and blue and violet and gold and green. Next to last a hammer in shimmering silver-white. All simply for the minor challenge. To amuse himself. To pass the time and let it all burn away.

Thor grinned as he watched, and he blew his own exhalations above their heads and to one side so as not to interrupt the display. "And what of you?" 

Loki raised an eyebrow and shrugged. With the last drag he sucked in a mouthful and, fitfully, let it rise up to be drawn into his nostrils, a briefly curving pair of horns. The action made him a little lightheaded, as it always had. Then the smoldering end was ground out under his heel, the breeze in the alcove swirling through the dark ash and whisking it into nothingness.

Thor made no comment, instead sliding an arm around him as if it were meant to be there for all time. “Come, brother; let us not keep them waiting.”  
  
Loki let Thor guide him back again to face those he now—at his brother's insistence—called friends.   
  
He supposed he did feel a little better, anyway.


	4. In Our Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor loves his brother most when he's sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nary a warning in sight here! Just a bit of fluff.

Thor sometimes thinks he loves his brother most when he is sleeping. He doesn’t tell Loki that—he would surely pay for it, with the scowl and the offended huff that would follow, and Loki would never believe that he does not mean it the way Loki would take it. He doesn’t mean he loves Loki best when he is quiet and still, when his tricks and his devious nature are masked under the peace of repose. What Thor loves about it is something quite otherwise, something he doubts Loki would believe if Thor dared to try to explain.

But Loki is _even more himself_ in slumber. And he has gotten more so as the years passed.

Thor remembers sharing a bed with his brother when they were both very small, and at the time (from what he remembers) Loki slept deeply, when he could finally be convinced to set his books aside, and when they both ceased to play and whisper together under the covers. Loki _was_ sweet in his sleep back then, his shiny black hair gleaming in the darkness, and only rarely did he wake before morning—only on the rare occasions when he was troubled by nightmares, or when he had to slip silently out of bed, bare feet making the softest noise on the floor, to fetch himself a drink of water.

Many years passed between then and now. Between sharing a bed with his baby brother as children and the first time Thor slept beside the grown man Loki has become. And the change had surprised him, an unexpected wrenching within his chest at how dear each moment was.

These days, Loki sleeps fitfully. He turns often, and when he does he is prone to yanking the blankets away from Thor, huffing and fussing with wordless grumbles if Thor tries to steal them back, and then minutes later, with sweat glowing on his pale brow, shoving them off of himself with resentment as if he had not been the cause of his own uncomfortable predicament.

It is a silly little thing, but it makes Thor almost laugh as he lies there half awake.

Loki once told him that it is not in his nature to be satisfied. His nature is that of striving, of frustration and yearning and struggle, and the sight brings forth all of Thor’s tenderest feelings toward him. It makes Thor love him all the more.

For his own part, Thor is simply glad for the chance to sleep beside his brother, to see him in his barest state.

But it is his own nature never to yield, to fight for what he cherishes. And that is how he is here, after all these years.


End file.
